Umbilical Cord: Best Version (2021) Painting by Valerie Kraplia

STORY 2: Best Version

"Umbilical cord" mini collection is dedicated to the hard and complicated relationship between mother and her daughter and took part in an International Art Contest.

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INTRODUCTION

This problem is as old as the world and, it seems, is generally unsolvable.

Almost always, when playing with my son on the playground, I notice them. Mothers who don't love their kids. There are a lot of them in my neighborhood. And how many of them are there in our 4 million city?.. In the country? Europe as a whole? In the world?..

They can never be recognized immediately. Dislike for a child is hidden deeply and thoroughly. In the overwhelming majority of cases, a woman does not allow herself to be aware of her feelings. As dislike for her kids is tabooed at all times and, probably, in all countries and cultures of the world without exception. It's rather felt by some kind of instinct, read by involuntarily admitted glances or gestures, a voice creaking at other moments, even the manner of discussing the peculiarities of raising a child in communication with other mom friends. Oddly enough, all too often, perfectly caring mothers don't love their babies.

It is believed that love for their child in women is instinctive - after all, most mothers really love their children in one way or another. But often things are not so simple. And I'm not talking about postpartum depression or parents weary of a tough chore. And I'm certainly not talking about asocial, addicted, or other troubled women, but about the most ordinary who are among us.

One never knows why a woman gives birth. In many cultures, she gives birth when her family forcibly gives her in marriage. She can get pregnant unexpectedly (got knocked up). She gives birth because relatives and friends keep tactlessly reminding: "Tick-tock, dear, it's time." She gives birth to keep a man or gain his opportunities. Gives birth to receive social assistance. Or because that's the common way - there is an absolute majority of such cases. Women just go with the flow, give birth according to tradition, and do not ask themselves uncomfortable questions. Unprepared for motherhood, these women naively believe that they will first give birth and then will fall in love with the baby, and do not even realize that too often it does not work like that...

By the way, the Internet, both in English and in my mother tongues, is replete with revelations of women about their dislike of their own children, intolerance of motherhood, and their broken lives. If interested, google it. Get surprised.

Today I am both a mother and a daughter, and therefore I do not want and cannot be an arbiter in this story. But I suspect that loving your child is like a lottery. Nobody knows who will misfire.

The eternal life drama "mom-daughter" or "mom-son" is not only living for psychologists and various coaches. This drama can even influence the course of world history. What was little Adolf's mother like? Did she love him?.. Did she take him in her arms, hug, smile and caress the boy?.. And Joseph's mother?.. And Mao's?.. And a lot others'?.. The most prominent example today is Afghanistan. I do not publicly comment on the situation with the rights of humans, particularly women (i.e. mothers or future mothers) that is happening there now. But I am closely following it (and horrified). Women without the right to education, sports, career, and, in general, to self-realization, women whose role has been reduced to being just a “field” to regularly produce crops... - this is not sad. It's suicidal. And such women are doomed to give birth too. Living in fear, suppressed, ousted, narrowed in rights and reduced only to their biological functions, will they be enough for love?.. What if not?.. What kind of children will they raise? Even more depressed girls and aggressive boys?..

Each painting in this mini collection ("Umbilical Cord") is a story. A story of an unloved (unloving) mother and / or unloved (unloving) daughter. I paint more women and write about women because I think I understand us better. Although the “mother-son” relationship (and I am the mother of the son) not only does it have less of a drama but in many cases much more. And this relationship is worthy of further reflection and searching...

P.S. And there is a “real” umbilical cord in every painting of the collection – the thick layer of a paint connecting mother and daughter.

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STORY 2: Best Version

MOTHER

When you were born, I finally found meaning in my life. Everything shone with bright colors! And, looking into your pink face, I swore we would always be together, no one would ever part us. I'd give you everything, especially what I myself had never had.

You were my hope.

I've always wanted you to be someone. I didn't want my daughter to waste her youth in vain, as I did: rush to get married and give birth in my 20s (to your elder sister who was raised by your nanny). I didn't want you to depend on men. I wanted you to keep your feet on the ground.

I made a titanic effort towards this. I tried to give you only the best - education, prospects, life. We had tutors, a private kindergarten, then your reputable school and a prestigious college. I was looking for the best teachers, acquaintances and connections. You must have been a Lawyer in a Successful Company, a Senior Partner, a Star, Whose Consultation was Worth Real Money.

I even had a candidate for your husband in mind who suited you perfectly.

You see, I really tried.

But my God, why did You give me such an idiot?!

I'm sorry my daughter turned out to obviously haven't got anything. I'm sorry her brain is broken, she is barking mad and has two left hands. And I'm sorry she has never appreciated everything that I put into her. I'm really sorry...

But, hell, she must have been perfect. Must have been the best version of myself, damn it. But from a meek angel she turned into a worthless weak-willed mollycoddle where she had to get her way, and a stupid pig-headed dummy when she had to obey and accommodate. Whatever she has ever undertaken, she never completes it. If it wasn't for me, I suspect she wouldn't even have finished school. And scrubbed the floors in a public restroom. And would have made me a grandmother at 40.

…Yeah…

…I remember exactly the evening when everything broke. You then came back home from college and the moment you entered the house, I realized: you were utterly different. A stranger to me. And that weird year on August 16, you said THOSE words to me. After them, I could not pull myself together. Everything began to get confused and drowned in the fog...

DAUGHTER

My childhood, my life with you was captivity, mom. You were a monster devouring me both outside and inside.

At first, I tried to please you, do everything so that you were happy. But no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough for you. And I was always an "idiot."

I was scared of you. Your mood swings, regular outbursts of anger, eternal discontent and irritation. When your key was turning in the lock, I almost instinctively hid in the closet and stayed there for hours, like a mouse, just to get some peace and quiet.

For many years I'd been suffocating near you. For many years you hadn't let me breathe freely, been smothering me with your nagging, insults, and demands so fiercely that my soul cracked and came apart. You controlled my every step, rummaged through my notebooks and personal diaries. Imposed friends, college, work, hobbies, leisure - everything. And reproached and insulted again. I'm still allergic to the word "idiot".

I wasn't myself near you. I wasn’t anyone at all. I wanted to be lost. Disappear from the face of the earth and die.

And I tried... I wonder if you remember THAT day, mom..

I know: I should have lived YOUR life - the one you never lived. And I must have realized YOUR dreams that you hadn't made come true for yourself. And it was impossible to leave you or hide from you and your determination to achieve your goal.

And once I got tired of being silent and obedient. I burst out talking. I released what'd been pent up inside for years. Everything that I was afraid to speak up for myself. Everything that I had been through with you. EVERYTHING. Even today, I believe the words I said then were fair to say. And to this day in my heart, I call you "bitch", not mother. And I can't forgive you - there are too many scars left. But that very day I was going to get away from you. To just live. It's weird that news didn't lead to your usual fit of temper that evening. You didn't even begin to routinely insult me. But you did worse: you just lost your mind. With a diagnosis of schizophrenia, you were going to handcuff me to yourself forever. Just as you always wanted.

Today I only call my sister occasionally. She sends money to the asylum where you are living in warmth and relative satiety.

And I'm living my life. Even if it's not happy, it's MINE.

Related themes

OilPaintingTexturedWomenFem Art